A woman under Taliban rule - voices from Afghanistan

15th August, the day India celebrates as Independence day, is also the day the Taliban took over 
Afghanistan. after the US abandoned the country.

I had earlier featured the story of an Afghan army officer who fought the Taliban, along with US forces, until he was abandoned. 
Fighting the Taliban and the US betrayal

A young medical student in Kabul also shared his story. I used that story to comment on smuggling and drugs in Afghanistan and how it has influenced the local economy and the fight for influence. 
Life under the Taliban and Afghan Geopolitics

This was followed by a young lady in Afghanistan, who was actually imprisoned by the Taliban and, having read the other stories now wants her voice to be heard. These are stories that will make us in India value the freedom we have.

While my blog does not cover human interest and poetry, I was touched by the young lady's spirit and 
believe her story deserves a separate post.

Her background: Marwa is an 18 year old from the city of Mazar-e-Sharif, in Balkh province of 
Afghanistan. She is studying computers on her own and is also a budding writer and poet. Born into a middle-class family, her father, Asadullah, always valued education and encouraged Marwa to learn and develop her individual skills. From a young age, Marwa developed a deep love for books and was passionate about studying and conducting research. Despite facing financial and family challenges, Marwa’s strong enthusiasm for reading and learning never wavered. At a young age, she is fluent in three languages.

Her ambitions: Since childhood, I wanted to be recognized as a writer and poet. I also wanted to show my people that a woman can report from the field and prepare news—this is not something only men can do. I wanted to show my community that a female journalist can work on the ground. Due to restrictions, women's freedom has become even more limited, and for example, women cannot go outside freely. I aspire to become Afghanistan’s representative at the United Nations and to establish myself as a renowned writer.

Her story (translated from Persian - I can share the Farsi original)
As she is a budding poet, she has written in that form. 

The dusty wind had filled the alleys of Mazar-i-Sharif;
a place where the muted cries of war hid among broken walls and crumbling bricks.
A girl stood there, alone, with eyes fixed bitterly on the hardships of life;
her gaze, like a shattered mirror, full of cracks of pain and memories she never wished to recall.
Her name was Marwa — a girl who had lost her dreams amidst the ruins of her destroyed home,
but who never surrendered.

The voice of her father, who had disappeared years ago in the cold winds of Mazar,
still rang in her ears:
"Nothing can stop you."
But the world was darker than these words could brighten.

Girls’ schools had been shut down, and the roads were filled with shadows that made it hard to breathe.
Marwa knew that every step she took could be her last,
but she could not stop reading books —
that tiny window with a view of freedom inside the iron cage around her.

At night, under dim light, her hands trembled as she turned the pages;
each word was a fresh wound on her already wounded heart,
yet also a lamp in the endless darkness.
Her mother, eyes brimming with tears, watched her from the corner of the room,
wishing she could take away her daughter’s pain.

One day, the sound of gunfire came closer.
Marwa knew this was not a time to run — it was a time to stand.
With a pen carved from the depths of her suffering, she wrote;
she wrote to be the voice of silent girls whose cries reached no one.
When the publisher’s letter arrived, her tears of joy and sorrow mingled:
"You are our voice."
Marwa understood that although darkness still ruled the world,
her light could make cracks in that blackness.

She stood, fearless, against the dark winds of fate,
with a heart that never gave up.
Every morning she awoke to the silent sound of the alleys,
as if time had stopped and each moment passed full of waiting and fear.
The heavy footsteps of soldiers and distant explosions
had become the bitter soundtrack of her days.

Under the yellow glow of an oil lamp, she wrote —
words like daggers into the silence that surrounded her life.
Her mother placed trembling hands on her daughter’s shoulders and, with a broken voice, said:
"Marwa, you are the strongest star in these dark nights."

In her solitude, Marwa sometimes doubted:
Would her voice truly be heard?
Could she bring the dreams of the nameless girls of this city to the world?

One day, walking among the ruins of a school that had once been full of laughter,
she saw broken walls and childish drawings on the blackboard —
each telling a story of hope and despair.
Right there, she decided never to be alone again.
Together with a few other girls — each with her own story of pain and resistance —
they gathered, wrote, read, and tried to make their voices louder.
Each word, each sentence, was a bridge flying toward freedom.

But their enemies did not sit still;
threats, arrests, and long nights in darkness became part of their daily life.
Many nights, in silence, Marwa would look at the sky with a heart full of fear and hope, whispering:
"If we do not stand, who will?"
And with that faith, she would grip her pen tightly and write —
writing until their voices were heard,
until the world knew that even in the blackest nights, there is a light that cannot be extinguished.

Marwa passed her days and nights between fear and hope.
With each passing day, the weight of oppression and violence pressed harder on her soul,
but she dreamed of a better future more than ever.

One cold winter morning, while thick fog still covered the roads,
news came that armed forces were searching for those
who had opposed the closing of schools and educational restrictions.
Marwa’s heart raced at the news,
but fear gave way to determination.

She understood that standing against oppression meant liberation —
even if the price was prison or her life.
In those days, she decided to write the story of her life —
a story that would be the voice of thousands of girls suffering in silence.

Under the shelter of night, while everyone slept,
she took up her pen and began to write.
Her words were a mixture of pain, hope, and anger;
each one a spark in the darkness of this land.

But fate placed a new challenge in her path.
One night, as she was writing,
the sound of a door breaking echoed through the house,
and men with stern faces entered.

"We are arresting you for illegal activities,"
one of them said coldly and mercilessly.

Marwa, heart filled with fear but eyes ablaze, stood firm.
In that moment, she realized this was the beginning of a road she must walk —
perhaps the hardest test of her life.

In the cold, damp prison cells, she was not alone;
the voices of her fellow inmates told the same shared story of pain and resistance.
There she understood: every woman who stands is an arrow to the heart of tyranny,
and every word she writes is a lamp in the night.

So she wrote again.
She sent her letters and memories outside,
lighting hope in others’ hearts,
becoming a light in the darkness that could not be put out.

In the darkness of prison, Marwa kept her spirit alive.
Every day, every moment, she held onto her pen.
Her writings, like small fragments of light,
passed through cold walls and barbed wire,
reaching those who had not forgotten hope.

In her small, cramped cell,
she replayed memories of her home in Mazar-i-Sharif —
her father’s gentle voice,
her mother’s loving gaze,
and the dusty alleys that had once been full of life.
Now everything had taken on a cold, gray hue.

Despite all the hardships, she knew she must keep resisting —
for herself, and for the girls whose voices had been stifled in their throats.
Whenever the guards’ footsteps echoed through the hall,
Marwa would whisper to herself:
"Nothing can stop me."

In her solitude, Marwa sometimes doubted:
Would her voice truly be heard?
Could she bring the dreams of the nameless girls of this city to the world?

Marwa passed her days and nights between fear and hope.
With each passing day, the weight of oppression and violence pressed harder on her soul,
but she dreamed of a better future more than ever.
A heart filled with fear but eyes ablaze, stood firm.

In that moment, she realized this was the beginning of a road she must walk —
perhaps the hardest test of her life.

Months passed, and at last the day of freedom came —
the day Marwa walked out of prison,
not only as a free woman,
but as a powerful voice for millions of Afghan girls.

With trembling hands but a heart full of hope,
she stepped into a world still full of shadows,
but where glimpses of liberation and change could be seen.

Now more than ever, Marwa wanted to write,
to speak, and to make sure no voice was silenced.
And that day, it was not only Marwa’s story,
but the story of thousands of Afghan girls
that reached the ears of the world —
a story of resistance, of unbreakable spirit,
and of a light that no darkness can extinguish.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Her poem (translated from Persian)  

She was the girl who carried the sky upon her shoulders,

Like a rooftop under Kabul’s rain—never bowed.

I was that same girl; my hands were full of wounds,

Like the cracked earth of Herat, yet standing firm.

I felt the weight of the sky pressing down,

But inside me, the fire of Panjshir’s valleys blazed.

The walls tried to chain my voice,

But my words, like the morning breeze, broke free.

In the darkest nights, when injustice fell asleep,

I kept the flame of hope burning deep within.

My hands were wounded; each scar held a tale—

The sorrow of the Hazaras, the story of a girl unbroken.

With my blood, I wrote my untold, unquenchable tale—

The tale of a woman who cried out from the heart of mountains.

The walls were built of stone and steel, but my words,

Like the Helmand River, carved a path through their core.

They thought they could silence me,

But my poems are like the melodies of the dutar—alive, eternal.

Pain—like ash dancing in the winter wind,

Endless nights, and I bloomed like a flower in Kokbazaar.

No torture ever brought me to my knees,

Each wound became a lantern of hope and resistance.

In the depths of the darkest prisons, a light broke through—

Brighter than the stars above Kabul.

The flame of freedom burns in my chest, undying—

A flame no chain, no prison can extinguish. 

____________________________________________________________________________